


Almost Like Fireworks

by pyrotechnicgray



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrotechnicgray/pseuds/pyrotechnicgray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Spy tried to reason with himself that it was the equivalent of watching a sporting practice and not escalating to something like a privacy invading infatuation. Spying was his job, right? It was almost like gathering intel on the enemy. Almost. Close enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Like Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic that I preeetty much only worked on this in the wee hours of the morning on my phone to help me sleep. So. It's kinda like a romance you find in sitcoms and anime. Sitconime.  
> I'm also just starting into the fic world, so critique would be nice !

The Spy is leaning against the wooden doorway at Badlands, smoking a cigarette and gazing out the windowsill. The desert night is silent except for the distant roar of rocketfire, one after another.

The Soldier from the other team is practicing his rocket jumps, like every Saturday night. It didn't matter where the teams were stationed, he would do it without fail, almost until morning light.

The Spy only discovered this when a misfired rocket shook his bedroom ceiling once in the middle of the night. It led to him sulking outside, bleary eyed and ready to kill a man, until he saw the silhouette of the Soldier flitting around the fortress that was Hightower, wall to floor to wall.

His team's Soldier rarely rocket jumped, instead opting to shoot every unfortunate mercenary that came into view, but this Soldier. The one who soared with a great storm following him and his shovel at the ready. As Demo would call it, the "terror of the skies." He was ...different.

Spy still thinks that the enemy Soldier is an asshole who takes too much delight in shoveling people to death and then blasting away to do it again, but even he noticed his skill.

One could even call it grace.

The first night he saw him practice, Spy could swear that he watched until the birds reminded him of the day. Now, Spy is much more careful to get some sleep, but whenever his insomnia acts up on a Saturday night, he goes outside to perhaps smoke a cigarette, enjoy the fresh air.

And also to admire the Soldier's work without worrying about getting blown to pieces.

He makes sure to keep himself cloaked of course, because if someone found out about his nightly excursions to ease his boredom, he'd probably have to stab them, let them respawn, and then stab them again. It's not like there's much entertainment available in a secret base in the middle of the night.

Only one person knows of his audience, and he almost suffered a knife wound for it.

\---  
  
He remembers that the mission that night was exhausting. Grueling battles at Sawmill for the intelligence that were at stalemates for hours on end. The team went to base for the night soaked through and pissed as hell. Honestly, Spy could have just showered and collapse into bed without a second thought, but he desperately needed to go through his cigarettes to relax.

Not because it was Saturday and the Red Soldier would be practicing, no. Of course not. (The Spy tried to reason with himself that it was the equivalent of watching a sporting practice and not escalating to something like a privacy invading infatuation. Spying was his job, right? It was almost like gathering intel on the enemy. Almost. Close enough.)

So that led to him standing out in a wooden shack with the rain pounding on its thin wooden ceiling, far away enough from his base to distract himself in peace. As he tried to light his first cigarette, he heard the distinct booming of the other team's rocket launcher through the downpour. God, he had to admit that the man had drive. Spy blew out a bit of smoke and relaxed his shoulders.  
  
But, wait. The sound was a bit louder than usual. It almost sounded like it was getting closer, and-  
  
"SPY!"  
  
The Spy almost flinched at the sudden yell. He turned around, knife out as an instinct, and came face to face with the Red Soldier, dripping wet. Merde, he forgot to cloak. Just how keen can this Soldier be 20 feet up in the air and with a helmet covering his eyes?  
  
Soldier puffed his chest out, jaw set, ignoring the knife pointed at his neck. "Put that thing down before you hurt yourself," he said, unfazed. "What are you doing out in downtime, private? This place ain't a sissy cafe for you Blu pansies!"  
  
The Spy realized that this was the first they have ever shared a word outside of fighting, even though he had been watching him train almost every week. A shame it had to be in such an embarrassing situation.

Spy readied an excuse. "Enjoying a cigarette after a hard day's work. Now, step away or I gut you."  
  
"Lies, Frenchie!" the Solider snarled. "In this little shack away from your half of the battlefield?"  He straightened up his back. "You better tell me your Blu blooded conspiracy or you'll regret it tomorrow!"  
  
He kept his butterfly knife steady. "No tricks. Can't a man enjoy a smoke now and then in peace?"  
  
The Soldier snorted. "Funny time to be smoking in peace then. Or am I not loud enough for ya'." He gestured towards his rocket launcher. "You aren't getting away with this that easily, Blu! Spill the beans!" The Soldier was definitely stubborn. Christ. He should just cloak and be done with it. Forget they ever met and move on with their lives.  
  
And he would have if it wasn't for the feeling in his gut that this was the only chance for him to talk to the Red outside of jeers and insults that naturally came with their war. He'd regret leaving without an explanation, surely.

Spy finally lowered his knife warily.

Images of the Soldier blowing him up with a rocket and slamming his head with his shovel flashed through his head, as if his subconscious was protesting. It was right, but unfortunately, it had to fuck off for a bit.

He turned around so he didn't have to see the Soldier's face.  
  
"You want a better answer, you buffoon? Fine." The Spy toyed with his cigarette nervously, aware of the Soldier's glare focused on his back.  
  
"I was..."  
  
Spy suddenly felt a fit of nervousness, realizing what he would sound like if he said 'I watch you rocket jump around like a rabid squirrel because I'm bored and can't sleep.'  
  
"... admiring your practice tonight."  
  
It seemed to catch Soldier by surprise. After a moment of silence, he went, "Huh?"  
  
"It's very impressive to see, I must admit, for a Red like you," Spy said, as casually as he could. Soldier went stock still, ears flushed. The Spy smirked. "Anybody can't help but watch, especially when you wake them in the middle of the night, non?"  
  
The Soldier sputtered for a bit, the compliment catching him off guard. Spy took the opportunity to ready his cloaking device and leave his embarrassment behind before anything got worse. He didn't need a broken nose tonight.

"But now you must excuse me, I think sleep is calling me agai-"  
  
Suddenly, a hand clamped on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. The Spy glanced at the contact out of the corner of his eye in horror because 1. this was the man who beat people to death in battle with a _shovel_ and 2. the warmth was a lot more comfortable than he'd like to admit.  
  
"Now wait just a second, Crouton!"  
  
Spy winced. The Soldier spun the Spy around so that they were face to helmet. Instead of anger or disgust, the Soldier had a genuine grin plastered on his face. Christ, Spy could bet that his eyes were sparkling under his helmet.  
  
"This is probably the first time I have met someone who could appreciate the fine art of rocket jumping! And I thought I was the only one!"  
  
"Eh- uh- what?" The Spy was at a loss for words at the sudden change in mood. It's not like he was lying before, but he didn't expect this response.  
  
"It's not just blowing yourself up, right? There's upmost skill, precision, and a shitton of blowing yourself up!" Soldier held a fist to his chest proudly. "I respect a man who can see that!"  
  
Spy stared. He couldn't stop thinking about the Soldier's hand on his shoulder, and gingerly brushed it off. "Yes, well. Of course. My pleasure." He couldn't believe that he was talking to a Red that didn't want to kill him, let alone it being the Soldier.  
  
"You know, maybe you aren't half bad, even though you're a Blu and un-American!" the Soldier continued.  "I could teach you the ins and outs of rocket jumping! Maybe you'll be a professional like me one day, even with your-" He gave the Spy a look over. "-body made for sneaky stuff."  
  
Well, he tried to not be insulting. Spy couldn't help but smile a bit, nevertheless. That would be an experience, but he wanted to keep his feet away from any explosions. "I think I'll pass."  
  
"Uh. Right." The Red Soldier shuffled awkwardly for a bit, and quickly grabbed his rocket launcher. "Then you can just watch and learn, Frenchie! I practice Saturday nights, after dinner. You better get your sneakiness fixed or the Admin will be out for our asses."

 He readied his rocket, pointed it at his feet. "I'll try not to kill you as much next time!" Then, in a mighty blast Spy knew all too well, the Soldier bounded away, leaving him in the suddenly quiet shack without his tireless roar of a voice.  
  
It took seeing Soldier turn in to the Red base for the night before Spy realized that his cigarette was lying forgotten on the ground.

\---

They didn't speak again after that rainy night. Maybe it was the experience of killing each other every day. But the Soldier _did_ keep his promise by aiming his rockets a few feet farther away from Spy than usual. It was his way of being thoughtful, he supposed.  
  
Now, Soldier simply performs his rocket stunts as usual, Saturday nights, after dinner, with Spy as his silent audience. Spy reasoned that the disconnect is as close as they can get. Their jobs demanded it, after all.  
  
Spy doesn't regret this as much as he expected. He pushed away the memories of Soldier's warm hand on his shoulder and his smile long ago, tucked away in the part of his head he didn't look back on. He can only enjoy the night air and the metronome sound of the blasts in the distance, knowing that the man making them was there, soaring, and that much is enough.

That much is enough.  
  
Spy checks his watch. Close to 11 already. He needs to get some rest for tomorrow's match, no doubt in scorching temperatures again. With a small sigh, he takes his finished cigarette, snuffs it out under his shoe, and begins the walk back to base.

 On the way, he notices that if he closes his eyes, the blasts made by that storm of a man almost sound like fireworks.  
  
Halfway to base, the sound stops. Instead, Spy hears the sound of boots on wooden floorboards. He uncloaks (Hears an "Augh!"), looks over his shoulder, and as he expected, Soldier is there, looking exactly the same as when he first met him that night they met. Feet together, back straight, launcher at his side. But instead of rain, he is captured by moonlight.  
  
Soldier looks distracted, and slightly apprehensive for some reason Spy can't (doesn't let himself) decipher. Nevertheless, the feeling of a warm hand crosses his mind.  
  
The Soldier clears his throat. "Uh. Nice sneaking around, Crouton."  
  
He falls into a silence. He is still looking straight at Spy from underneath his helmet, hesitant to say something no doubt.  
  
Spy turns to face him fully now. "So, we are here again.”

Somehow, he knew this would happen.

“What is it, Red Soldier?"  
  
"Um. Well." The Soldier pauses, and to Spy's surprise, takes off his helmet and puts it to his chest. He looks like a gentleman for once.  
  
(His eyes are the color of clear desert sky.)  
  
"Spy?"  
  
\---  
  
When they meet again, nowhere near the battlefield and with drinks in their hands, they smile like old friends.


End file.
